The Fisherman’s Wife

I yelled at the sea and the wind and demanded you back. I begged. I cried. I begged again. I pleaded with the sea to give you back to me. And it did. Not when I first threw myself to the ground in mourning. Not when the hard pebbles were spat at me by the waves. Not when the icy wind in my ears felt like cold laughter. I walked away from the shore to my home (it looked cozy and quaint when you were with me, now it looked as if it was cowering in the cold breeze) and fiddled with the fire wood, hands too cold to actually do my bidding, when I went out to get water from the well. That’s when I heard you hum. “Bring back my bonnie to me”, like you used to when you were with me, warming my cold hands and feet.

When I pulled up the bucket, the rope whirring, I felt the hemp splinters break my skin. That song was stuck in my ear and it got fainter as I moved back to the house. The merry little fire had warmed it up a bit. I took some wool and started spinning.

That awful song.

But I felt my feet tingle. They felt warm. They never felt warm.

My kettle started whistling and oh, it sounded just like that wicked song. From the corner of my eyes I saw your smile, I felt your calloused hand on my shoulder. I did not dare to turn my head. I closed my eyes. But when I opened them, through the salty water on my lashes and the steam, I saw it. The fish. It was in the bucket. A sea bass. There were no sea bass in the well. With steady hands, I prepared it. I took some of that wilted parsley. And salt. A lot. As you liked it. I prefer a little. But you would always put more on it, and I would nag about it, that you had spoiled the good food. I put two plates on the table, yours and mine.

And when I finished both of them, I felt that tingling in my belly. Just like a fish. When I counted back the days since I had last bled, I cried again.